


the coffee shop au

by overwatch_au



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, overwatch-au, the coffee shop au, what's up y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overwatch_au/pseuds/overwatch_au
Summary: it’s called overwatch cafe and it’s s76′s one true lovetoo many beautiful things happen here





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i love y'all and in case you didn't know i'm on tumblr at @overwatch-au

it’s called overwatch cafe and it’s s76′s one true love

winston’s a coffee aficionado who makes all the new flavors

tracer’s the over-energetic barista

mercy is a tired bunny of a cashier

she tries so hard

pharah is the art student who mercy has a crush on

she comes in every day with a sketchbook and sits in the corner window and draws

mercy watches her longingly from behind the counter

one day, tracer comes up to her

the cafe’s fairly empty

“you should go talk to her. get her number, y’know, something?”

mercy snorts. that’s about as likely to happen as lucio disliking beyonce

“tell you what,” she says, fairly confidently. “i’ll ask her for her number if you get that talon waitress’s number, and vice versa.”

tracer pales

amelie lacroix, aka widowmaker, is the stony barista from the talon bar and grill across the street

she wears lots of purple corsets and gives not one single fuck

mercy doubts she’s ever felt an emotion in her life

(she hasn’t)

tracer’s utterly in love with her. but, then again, it’s highly unlikely that mercy will ever work up the courage.

“Deal.”

lucio is the dj from the pub next door

d.va is the tiny hardcore engineering student who listens to death metal and has lots of piercings

she and tracer get on well

one day, mercy’s at the counter

there’s a long line of exhausted college students waiting for their daily caffeine supplement

suddenly, tracer lets out a squeak and disappears out the front door

mercy lets out an uncouth stream of curses

tracer’s a better barista than she is

mercy tries anyway

she spills a scalding hot coffee on her hand

and yelps

she feels the pressure growing and she’s about to panic

when suddenly there’s a soft voice

“hey.”

she looks up. it’s the hot art student. she’s embarrassed enough to crawl under a table and die.

hot art student tilts her head. “need some help? i did a stint as a barista once.”

mercy swallows. she’s about to faint probably. “um, that’d be great.”

hot art student shoots her an easy smile and jumps over the counter

you don’t understand

pharah’s  _smooth as fuck_

she’s also a really good barista

they work side by side for the next hour or so. pharah’s sketchbook is sitting on her usual bench.

once the crowd’s trickled out, mercy wipes her hands, reaching for the cash machine.

“how much-”

pharah cuts her off. “no, i’m good. really.”

“really?” mercy asks skeptically.

“really.”

pharah heads back to her bench.

“um- your name?” mercy calls.

another easy smile. her knees go weak. “it’s fareeha.”

tracer comes back eventually, grinning like nothing happened.

mercy  _would_ yell at her, but it also got her an hour with pharah, so whatever.

the next day, pharah comes in, and they sit together and talk. about everything.

school, art, coffee, the meaning of life

after like a month of this, mercy works up the courage to ask what she draws in her sketchbook

pharah blushes, stutters.

“a crush?” mercy asks

pharah doesn’t meet her eyes. “uh, yeah. sort of.”

pharah doesn’t come in the next few days 

mercy alternates between sulking and being depressed.

“a crush,” she moans to a sympathetic tracer, “she has a crush.”

“cheer up, love” tracer chirps, incessantly happy. “it might be you.”

“it’s not,” mercy says with certainty.

“eh, y’never know.”

pharah comes in one day, rushes to the counter. tracer’s off doing something.

“listen,” she blurts out. winston looks over, raising an eyebrow

pharah falters. “can i borrow you for a minute?”

“sure,” angela says, curious

“listen,” pharah says again. they’re walking next to washington fountain, where a few youngsters are splashing about and getting all sorts of diseases

“um… i don’t know how to say this, but i, uh, i like you?”

mercy’s in shock. frozen. pharah misinterprets her reaction.

“oh my god, i shouldn’t have said that. things are awkward now, huh? um… i’ll just, uh, be leaving- listen, i’m really-”

mercy grabs her face and kisses her under the grey sky and the sound of water falling.

she doesn’t stop smiling for the next few months.

until she remembers the bet, and then she starts smirking

“hey,” she says one day. tracer looks up.

“we had a bet. i asked pharah out, now you have to ask widow.”

“nope”

“too bad. a bet’s a bet. i’ll put you on dishes for a year if you don’t.”

tracer sighs.

it’s comical how much of an idiot she can be

but widow seems charmed

which is weird

but honestly everyone’s charmed by tracer and her messy hair

tracer comes back triumphant somehow

d.va makes grossed-out noises every time mercy blushes because pharah does something cute

lucio remixes a bunch of love songs and gets his friend zenyatta (who’s a computer genius) to rewire the sound system to just play love songs

winston still gives not one fuck (it’s a universal constant)

widow is annoyed and life is good


	2. part 2

 

it’s a glorious day at overwatch cafe

mercy’s pissed because pharah won’t show her the sketchbook

pharah’s pissed because she’s not  _fucking done_ , okay, these things take time

widow’s pissed because widow’s always pissed

tracer’s pissed because there’s a customer bitching

the customer’s pissed because it’s five o’clock in the morning and classes start in five minutes

lucio is not pissed cuz he’s a cool dude and also because he’s listening to 6 inch heels and nobody can be pissed listening to beyonce

eventually the customer leaves and tracer is done

“fuck this” and then she flops down on the floor and falls asleep

mercy nudges her awake at rush hour

a half-asleep tracer is not a graceful tracer

actually, no tracer is a graceful tracer

anyways

things happen

things being boiling hot coffee scorching mercy’s hand

she yelps

makes some undignified noises of pain

and then rushes into the backroom, making tracer deal with the mess

she can handle it

some more bad shit happens

d.va’s in a particularly bad mood

she starts ranting about proportions in engineering and how awful her professor is

a dog knocks over the sign not once, not twice, but six times

widow comes in and yells at tracer

and by the time pharah comes in scowling mercy is Too Tired To Deal With This Shit (or TTTDWTS for short)

“hey-” “no.”

“um, are you-” “no.”

“but-” “I SAID NO FAREEHA AMARI.”

at which point pharah’s anger fades away because she hates seeing her gf upset

“babe, what’s wrong?”

and mercy bursts into tears

pharah guides her to the backroom, shoots widow a look

widow nods in understanding, jumps smoothly over the counter- honestly, pharah doesn’t know why the door’s there, no one uses it- and starts helping tracer with the orders

tracer scrunches her nose gratefully

widow drops a kiss on her forehead that she later denies doing

pharah makes an ‘aw’ noise

widow glares at her

she salutes and ducks into the backroom behind mercy

“hey, ang,” and then she leans forward and wraps her arms around the doctor “tell me what’s wrong.”

“everything’s wrong,” mercy blubbers, “the shop’s a mess, and my hand hurts, and my head hurts, and my thesis is due in a week and i haven’t even written it yet,”

and she keeps talking until she’s all out and then she falls asleep in pharah’s arms because she hasn’t slept in three days and you can’t run on caffeine alone with a med student schedule and a part-time job

and that’s when pharah pulls out her sketchpad and flips through it

very, very quietly, so as not to wake the sleeping girl

it’s filled almost all the way, with just two pages left

she smiles down at mercy

and begins to draw

charcoal scratching softly against paper, thin, careful strokes of black, streaked across creamy white

somehow, mercy’s hair looks golden even when drawn in black and white

everything’s okay

it’ll all be okay


	3. part 3

mercy graduated a few months ago

pharah’s in her final year and on her second sketchbook

her professor requires two sketchbooks filled with artwork

and cause the prof’s cool she doesn’t require completion of pieces

just as long as you can come up with a poetic reason why it’s not finished

pharmercy move in together

it’s a little apartment in greenwich, new york

one day, mercy comes rushing in through the door

pharah’s curled up on the couch with a sketchbook and fuzzy socks

“fareeha,” mercy says excitedly, and pharah blinks, looking up.

“angela, habibti. wha-”

“you know that job i applied for a few months back? a professor at stanford?”

“yes, i-”

“i got it.”

pharah breaks out in a huge grin, jumps up, and picks mercy up, spinning her around

both of them are squealing and it’s  _so cute_

and then tracer comes sauntering in with like a full-on mattress and a sleeping bag

“tracer. what.”

“i tried to top widow. don’t ask.”

“ah.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT”

“I DO BECAUSE YOU’RE FANTASTIC AND I BELIEVE IN YOU AND I LOVE YOU”

“MARRY ME AND MOVE TO CALIFORNIA WITH ME”

 

 

 

…”what?”

oh shit oh shit oh shit mercy that was in no way smooth at all

tracer sees the look on her face and very quickly backs out of the apartment

“are you joking?”

“no, i’m not. fareeha, listen. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i just want you to be happy. i’ve never wanted that so much before. fareeha-”

“um- i really have to- just remembered- i have to go.”

she practically sprints out

tracer’s waiting outside

she grabs onto pharah’s arm like an obstinate barnacle

“did you say yes?”

“um, i…”

“oh my god. you blew her off.”

“in my defense-”

“you’re an idiot. i’ve seen your sketches, pharah.”

“wha- but i never- did you-”

“doesn’t matter. what does matter is that i know you. you pour every bit of your soul into your art, phar.”

“but i don’t know if we’re ready for this.”

“do you?”

pharah looks at her. “i think i would, tracer. i’m half of the we.”

“don’t speak for angela. if  _you’re_ not ready, then i get that. but if you don’t think the two of you are ready, then maybe you should ask what she feels.”

“she blurted it out in the heat of the moment, lena. she didn’t mean it.”

“and how do you know that?”

“well, i don’t. but, i mean-”

“is angela the person you want to love for the rest of your life?”

“yes.” pharah says instantaneously. “but we’re not-”

“hey, dumbass. i’m just going to ask you one question. don’t answer me now. think about it. okay. if angela’s ready for that commitment, then is it you being unready or your fear of being unready that’s holding you back? just think about that. see you round, phar.”

one day later

mercy’s almost literally dying

she’s fairly certain this is a legitimate medical disease.

“she hates me now”

“stop whining”

not for the first time, she wonders why she enlisted widow to talk to about this

widow shovels more popcorn into her mouth and changes the channel

“but i just sort of threw it at her. and then she left. i just- oh my god i’m a terrible person.”

“is it possible to mute a human being?”

“i’m trying to angst here.”

widow sighs. “if she loves you, she’ll be back. eventually.”

“i can’t stand it anymore, amelie. i don’t think it’s-”

“oh look, there she is.”

angela freezes

widow gets up, carelessly tossing her popcorn all over the carpet, and brushes by pharah.

pharah’s panting, like she’s just sprinted a mile

“fareeha, it was unfair of-”

“you really want to be married to me.”

mercy blinks, taken aback.

“yes. more than anything else in the world.”

“and you want me to move to california with you.”

“of course.”

“you’re sure?”

“i have never been surer, fareeha.”

“then yes.”

angela freezes because this is probably the gayest (in both senses of the word) she’s ever been in her whole life.

“really?”

they’re both sniffling a little

“yes, a hundred times over.”

mercy’s too overcome to do anything but kiss her

when they separate, pharah rests her forehead against mercy’s

“i’m going to need a sizable diamond, though.”

mercy kisses her again.

“we’re gonna be okay,” she says, then reconsiders. “actually, fuck that. we’re going to be better than okay. we’re going to be great. we’re going to be fabulous. we’re going to be  _the shit_.”

pharah laughs. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

they’re in love.


	4. the symbra edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also posted as 'the writer au'. angsty.

she walks poetry

that is the first thought satya vaswani has when she sees her

there are lines of words written in every fluid curve of her body

verses in the carelessly swinging arms, a haiku for each lopsided twitch of her purple-painted lips

satya’s fingers itch to write her down, commit her to paper, and she reaches for her notebook and uncaps her purple pen (a fitting colour), presses the point against the creamy paper

after a moment, she pulls the pen away, leaves a purple circle behind on the paper

and all she does is watch

the woman strides across the coffee shop, waves at lena, the barista behind the counter, rattles off a memorised order

lena tips her head in acknowledgment, turns to the coffee machine

‘interesting, isn’t she?’

satya looks over at fareeha, who sits curled on the bench across from her, pencil tapping against her lips, giving her a strange smile

‘…yes. i suppose so.’

that is true. her whole ensemble is  _interesting_ , purple-streaked hair, a suit the colour of violets. and interesting can be good or bad, but it is always a change.

‘her name is sombra.’

 _sombra._  satya rolls the name over her tongue.  _sombra_. it is a fitting name, she decides.

‘she’s one of talon’s. comes over occasionally. i think she likes the company more than the coffee.’

‘hm.’

‘oh, and she’s coming over.’

satya glances up, just as sombra jogs over, carelessly waving a receipt.

‘fareeha, hola!’ she chirps. ‘who’s this lovely lady?’

‘satya vaswani,’ satya says, and sombra looks at her for a second.

‘you’re a writer, aren’t you?’

‘yes.’

‘then i have a word for you.’

satya tilts her head, curious. ‘yes?’

‘aturdir. it’s a palabra española. it’s a word for when something leaves you speechless.’

‘hm.’ satya writes it, looping the ‘t’. ‘and why that?’

sombra flashes her a blinding smile. ‘it’s the first thing i thought when i saw you.’

satya looks up, stares in confusion at that lopsided grin, the sparkling purple eyes. ‘i…’

‘sombra!’ calls angela, and both sombra and fareeha look up. the artist smiles softly at the girl behind the counter, and angela winks back at her, before waving to sombra.

sombra jogs away, picks up her cup, salutes back at the two of them, and then disappears. satya watches after her for a second.

when she looks back at fareeha, the artist is studying her closely, half-smirking. she doesn’t say anything, just hums and chuckles to herself.

sombra keeps coming back, and she pulls up a chair and argues (flirts) with satya about philosophy

socrates, confucius, and voltaire are controversial enough

they once have a heated argument spanning five hours, until the shop is closed and they’re yelling in the dark, about nietzsche’s master-slave moralities

another favourite topic is hacking versus writing

‘it’s art, too,’ sombra says, eyes bright poetry, ‘look. like your writing, but lines of code. they’re gorgeous.’

satya folds her arms, shoots her a challenging stare. ‘really. how do you know it’s art?’

sombra spreads her hands. ‘it’s beautiful. a lot of things are art, without fitting into your categories of boring things. so much of life is art, but we never recognize that.’

‘so everything that’s beautiful is art?’

‘yes! like you. you’re art.’

‘well, if i’m art, you’re art too,’ satya retorts absentmindedly, scrawling down a line. she realizes a beat later what she just said, and looks up. 

sombra’s silent, and when satya looks at her nervously she’s frozen, mouth half open, entirely speechless. after a moment, she laughs a little.

‘what did i say,’ she says. ‘me dejas aturdido.’

eventually, it becomes a regular occurrence, and satya starts bringing little things she knows sombra will find interesting. a treatise on independence, a supposed holy item from india, an advanced piece of vishkar tech, and she looks forward to seeing her every day.

except one day (and it’s two days from her birthday), sombra doesn’t come. 

satya sits there, puzzled, racking her brain for all the reasons she might not have showed up.

until angela rushes in, still half in scrubs.

‘satya,’ she says, urgent. ‘satya, it’s sombra.’

on the way to the hospital, angela tells her of the incident. sombra had just staggered into the lobby, grinned tiredly at angela with blood pouring from her chest, and held out a beautifully wrapped parcel. and then she had collapsed.

‘what was the parcel?’

angela pushes her fingers into her forehead, massages her temple. ‘i didn’t open it.’

they sit in tense silence, and as soon as the car screeches to a halt, both of them are out and running. satya rounds the corner to sombra’s room and stares.

she’s unconscious, looking tiny and unsombra-like in the too-large hospital bed and the blue gown, hair matted, the purple poetry of her hair looking faded against the too-white sheets.

‘oh my god,’ satya breathes, ‘oh god, my god.’

‘she’s been in this state for the past four hours,’ fareeha reports, looking up from the hospital bed. ‘the officer said it was a stabbing.’

‘what?’

fareeha shrugs grimly. ‘i don’t know any more details. she’ll tell us if she wakes up.’

‘what’s the-’ angela begins, but she’s interrupted.

‘when.’ satya says suddenly, voice quiet and still.

‘what?’

‘when she wakes up,’ she repeats, ‘ _when_  she wakes up, not  _if._ she’s not going to die. she’ll wake up.’

fareeha exchanges a look with angela. ‘satya,’ she says, voice calming and gentle and pitying,  _damn her_ , ‘she got a knife through her chest. it went through her heart and punctured her lung. it destroyed too many vital organs for her to live normally again.’

‘but she’ll be alive.’ satya says, unsure, ‘she has to be alive, right?’

fareeha looks down, doesn’t say anything and that’s all satya needs to know.

they leave the two of them alone- according to some police officer, any family sombra had is long gone- and satya sits with her, legs crossed on the chair next to the bed.

after about an hour of silence and the steady beeping sounds of the hospital, satya speaks, faltering, hesitating, quiet.

‘you know, my first thought when i saw you was poetry-  _you_  were poetry. i wanted to write you, but i couldn’t. i couldn’t commit you to paper. that would make you- that would make you so much less than you were. there was no word. no word that could sum you up, no word that could become you.’

she bows her head a little. ‘i did try. i tried to write you, i did. i had dreams that you taught me what to write. i had dreams-’ she laughs a little, bitter- ‘of you, i had dreams of you writhing, things spilling from your mouth that were absolutely  _filthy_ , and i had dreams of you smiling, laughing, talking with me, and i had dreams of you arguing, and i had dreams of just you, you and your boundless words, and i had dreams about writing those words, in the exact way your lips would close around each consonant, and how your throat would resonate with each vowel, and how i would fall for you more with each sound.’

she stops there for a moment, faltering, but continues, words building.

‘i just- i don’t think that i could turn you into poetry. but i do think, in a way, you were made of poetry. beautiful, exquisite, indescribable, and had you been in any way different, i do not think i would love you as i do, because every time you smiled, i was speechless.’

‘satya,’ comes a faint breath, and satya jumps, looks down at bright, sparkling,  _poetry purple_ , and the girl grins up at her, a soft twitch at the corner of purple-painted lips.

‘sombra,’ she breathes, ‘ _sombra,_ dammit, i love you,’ because she needs to say it now, and then she tastes poetry, and then there’s a frantic beeping sound, and chaos, and shouting, and there is poetry surrounding her at last, pure purple poetry, lips soft

and sombra whispers a soft word and dies.

satya sits still in the whirling vortex of life and stares at the parcel on her bedside table.

she opens it that night, when she’s sitting at home, and it’s a ring, the same word inscribed into the silver, sombra’s last word.

(she’ll wear it for the rest of her life)

years later, she writes a poem.

it’s an epic poem, spanning two hundred pages exactly. the new york times hails it as ‘the greatest and… most tragic love story of this century, if not all time,’ and it sells 500 million copies worldwide, is translated into twenty different languages, and it stays as #1 on the bestsellers list for almost four years

and fareeha smiles sadly when she reads it. 

the dedication is simple and intriguing and mysterious and it is its own poem in itself and decades after she dies people will write essays about it that span for a hundred pages because it means so little and yet so much and it makes no sense at all.

_to sombra._

_aturdir._


End file.
